


Blood

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26604913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Carl has an early showing.
Relationships: Carl Manfred/Amanda Stern
Kudos: 5





	Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“It’s so... _powerful_ ,” the woman murmurs, gesturing towards the canvas with her half-empty glass of sparkling champagne. 

The man next to her nods, adding, “It clearly represents the struggle of man’s ever-evolving thirst for success.” He jabs a finger at the yellow streak that intersects a house-shaped specter near the top left of the painting. “See, that is obviously a gold deposit, denoting that the city itself is, in fact, a mine.”

“Yes, I see it!” The woman agrees, though she squints as she talks, leaning closer. Examining the brushstrokes in fine detail won’t help her, won’t cement the man’s theory, because that wasn’t what Carl was trying to say at all—he actually knocked his mustard sandwich onto it an hour before he had to ferry all his work to the gallery. There wasn’t time to clean it up or paint over it. It galled him to see his work discolored, but at the same time, he had a feeling no one else would even notice, because the art world is every bit as irritating as he thinks it is. 

He keeps doing these shows anyway. Eventually, he’ll be able to afford a big enough space that he won’t have to eat in the same place he works. As it is, he’s right on the cusp, just between starvation and breaking through. The price tag on the yellow-smeared ghost town painting is his largest one yet, and he doesn’t interrupt the couple discussing it, because as much as he doesn’t want those fools to have it, he could really use the paycheck.

He tells himself he’ll use that money to paint something even _better_ , and it’ll justify having his work in some cretin’s house. Downing another large sip of hard vodka—smuggled in under his jacket to his own damn show—Carl meanders over to another corner of the room, away from the larger crowd. The paintings lining the back wall are his earlier work, back before the lights were about to be turned off and he had to get more commercial. Someday, he tells himself, he’ll just be able to _feel the art_ , and his name will be enough to sell them. In a way, he doesn’t actually know if that’ll be any better.

There’s a single woman loitering by a sci-fi rendition of a bleeding robot. It’s crying in a graveyard/dumpster, surrounded by shattered metal limbs. Macabre, yes, but meaningful—that particular scenario came to him in a dream, one he woke up from panting hard and sweating through the blankets. The portrait he’s created isn’t quite as vivid as the surreal landscape was in his mind, but he’s still mildly fond of it. 

The woman eyeing it is beautiful, perhaps his age or a couple years younger, with dark brown skin and curly yellow hair, her white jumpsuit somehow both utilitarian and futuristic. There’s just enough blue glitter under her eyes to draw a double take, but then she’s turned to look at him, and it’s her eyes he catches on instead. 

Her gaze flickers over him, across his faux-leather jacket with the sleeves rolled up enough to show off his new tattoos. Eventually, he’ll have both arms done right down to the wrists. But tattoos are expensive, and paint comes first. 

When her pretty eyes finally make their way back to his face, he asks, “What do you think?”

He could mean the painting, or he could mean himself. A small grin tugs at the corner of her lips, and she answers without clarifying which, “Not bad.” Carl finds himself smiling back and resists returning the complement, just in case she really means the artwork. 

She slowly turns back to it. Her arms cross over her slender chest, hands free of any drink, and her posture straightens, as though she’s making a show of really _looking_ at his work. Then again, he’s not sure she realizes he’s the artist. Plenty of people seem to have wandered in just for the sake of the _event_ , without any real interest in him or his style. 

The woman says, “This is an evocative piece. I wonder why, though, the android is bleeding red.”

Carl could say thank you but doesn’t want to give himself a way just in case. People are always more honest when they think he’s just another stranger. He suggests, “Perhaps it’s a deliberate statement. The man, though mechanical, isn’t any different inside than a human being.”

The woman clicks her tongue and counters, “Then he’s not an android at all, is he?”

“Oh?”

“Either he bleeds like the rest of us, or he doesn’t, and he’s not even a ‘he’ at all.”

She says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that even though she’s dead _wrong_ , he can’t help but admire her confidence. She’s missed the entire point of his piece, but it’s a _real opinion_ , and that’s a thousand times more valuable than the useless praise behind him. He finds himself extending his free hand before he can help it, then greeting, “Carl Manfred, at your service.”

“Amanda Stern,” she answers, reaching out to shake his hand, her slender digits neatly manicured around his paint-slicked palm. He has stains he’s sure he’ll never be truly rid off. She looks like she’s never done a single day of hard labour in her life, doesn’t even fill her own car or carry her own umbrella, but she also looks like she could kill a man with one hand tied behind her back. He finds himself intrigued. 

He asks, “Are you in the art world?”

“Cybernetics, of a sort.” 

Even _more_ intrigued. It suddenly makes sense that she’s been drawn to his older works, where he was more experimental with ideas of the future. Then something vibrates in her pocket, and she draws out a cell phone, quick to unlock and scan it. He feels like his window’s swiftly closing and isn’t surprised when she stuffs it back and says, “Alas, duty calls. It was interesting to meet you, Mr. Manfred. Your work is most... imaginative.”

She says it almost like a backhanded complement. He’s dying to know more. She’s already turning on her heel and clicking towards the door.

He calls after her, “I have another show across town next month, if you’re interested.”

Amanda’s steps falter. She glances over her shoulder, grins, and goes. 

Carl’s grinning too. He knows exactly what he’ll paint as soon as he gets home.


End file.
